


the next three days

by punk_rock_yuppie



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti)
Genre: Ambiguously Queer Eddie, Ambiguously Queer Mike and Bill, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Angst, Canon Divergence, Eddie lives AU, F/M, Fix-it fic, Future Fic, Gay Richie, Get together fic, Happy Ending, M/M, Multi, Pining, established relationships - Freeform, handjobs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-16
Updated: 2019-09-16
Packaged: 2020-10-19 18:14:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 16,362
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20661575
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/punk_rock_yuppie/pseuds/punk_rock_yuppie
Summary: Richie and Eddie fall out of touch after defeating Pennywise.Now they’re back together for Bev’s and Ben’s wedding.





	1. day one

**Author's Note:**

> so 'I'll be loving you forever' came on while I was at work and this entire fic came to me in a freakish sudden sequence. I gotta say, I'm pretty darn pleased with myself! 
> 
> real talk, though, if anyone told me 2 years ago I'd be writing a 16k romcom fic for reddie, I would've bullied that person. I never saw myself ending up here, but hey! my muse takes me where it takes me. 
> 
> anywho, big thanks to Pip and Hannah for cheerleading this fic, and for Hannah and Jack for beta'ing!! also, a disclaimer: I know next to nothing abt how weddings work, so I did my best but please ignore any inconsistencies or unrealistic bits. I also know nothing about Hawaii, it just seemed like a neat place to set the story. I tried my best hahahaha. 
> 
> Hope y'all enjoy this!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bill opens his mouth to add something but Richie cuts across him. “That reminds me!”
> 
> “Oh no,” Ben says miserably.
> 
> Richie leans forward. “I want to give a speech, too. I already have it written and everything.” It’s a lie; or, well, _mostly_ a lie. He’s got some scribbled notes and haphazard thoughts jotted down, but it’s nothing coherent. 
> 
> “You wrote your own material?” Bill says, a hand over his chest in mock surprise. “You really didn’t pay someone to write it for you?”
> 
> “Low blow, Big Bill,” Richie says, rolling his eyes. “I _did_ write it myself, fuck you very much. And I think it’s pretty fucking great.” Richie grins. His sticky notes are pretty good, if incoherent. 
> 
> “You think _everything_ you do is great, Trashmouth,” a voice says from behind them.

Beverly meets him at the airport with a dazzling smile and her crazy red curls pulled back into a loose ponytail. Richie barely has a chance to set his suitcase down before she’s running and leaping into his arms. He wraps his arms around her waist; they stagger back, laughing and, maybe, just a little, getting a bit teary-eyed. 

“Jesus, Bev,” he says when he finally sets her down. “You sure know how to greet a guy.”

Bev winks at him. She’s more beautiful than he’s ever seen her, and that’s saying something. It’s only been a year since he last saw her but her skin is sun-kissed and tan, her freckles are bright like constellations across her face and arms, and her grin hasn’t even twitched. 

“Fuck, I missed you,” he breathes, pulling her in for another hug. She goes willingly with a giggle.

“Missed you too, Trashmouth.” Beverly cups his cheek as they pull back this time; she thumbs over his cheekbone. She peers over his shoulder and he knows she’s subtly looking for his boyfriend—ex, now, not that he bothered to mention that to any of the Losers the last six months. 

Beverly doesn’t mention that now, though. Her hand drops from his cheek to lace their fingers together instead. “C’mon, Bill will probably be lounging in front of the hotel.”

Richie lets Beverly tug him along—after he grabs his suitcase again, because he keeps nearly forgetting it. As they slide into her top-down blue convertible, despite the gorgeous-yet-unfamiliar scenery of Hawaii around them, Richie can’t help but feel like he’s coming home.

Bill _is_ in front of the hotel when they arrive, sitting outside and catching rays with Ben and Mike. Ben’s bent over some notebook with a pencil in his hand, but he’s not writing anything as Richie and Bev pull up. Bill’s head is tipped back and his mouth hangs open and Richie doesn’t need to be close to know he’s snoring quietly. Mike looks relaxed, with a sunhat pulled low over his face; Richie’s pretty sure he’s sleeping too and stifles a snort. Bev hears it anyway and shoots him a grin as she throws the car into park. 

Despite his protests, Beverly insists on taking his suitcase inside— “Just so the valet can bring it up to your room, Richie, sheesh”—and shoos him over to the other men. 

“Missed the memo that it was grandpas’ day out,” Richie announces loudly.

Ben’s the only one who doesn’t startle. Bill jumps in his seat and nearly sends his chair falling backwards until he catches himself with a hand on the table. Mike snorts, shakes his head, and his hat flutters off when he raises his head in a daze.

Ben barks out a laugh and looks up at Richie. “We were waiting for you to get here for the fun to start. Duh.”

Richie does a little bow. “Wise choice, Benjamin.” He drags a chair over to the little patio table they’re situated around and swings a leg over the seat so he can rest his arms across the back of the chair. 

“It’s so beautiful here,” Bill mutters grumpily. “I guarantee we’ll find you passed out in the sun at some point.”

“Never said that wouldn’t happen,” Richie says. “But jeez, it’s barely eleven in the morning. Up all night partying?” He knows Bill and Mike arrived together (living together and dating means _duh_ they traveled together) two days ago. 

“Hardly,” Mike says around a yawn. “Mostly getting stuff ready for the wedding, helping Bill with his speech.”

Bill opens his mouth to add something but Richie cuts across him. “That reminds me!”

“Oh no,” Ben says miserably.

Richie leans forward. “I want to give a speech, too. I already have it written and everything.” It’s a lie; or, well, _mostly_ a lie. He’s got some scribbled notes and haphazard thoughts jotted down, but it’s nothing coherent.

“You wrote your own material?” Bill says, a hand over his chest in mock surprise. “You really didn’t pay someone to write it for you?”

“Low blow, Big Bill,” Richie says, rolling his eyes. “I _did_ write it myself, fuck you very much. And I think it’s pretty fucking great.” Richie grins. His sticky notes _are_ pretty good, if incoherent.

“You think _everything_ you do is great, Trashmouth,” a voice says from behind them.

Richie chokes on his next breath as he whips around to see none other than Eddie Kaspbrak standing with three large suitcases around him and a fannypack around his waist. “Eddie fucking Spaghetti, as I live and breathe.”

Eddie flips him the bird. “Shut up, Richie,” he says fondly. Then, “Are any of you fuckers gonna help me with my shit?”

Richie jumps to his feet with the rest of their friends; Ben ends up empty-handed because Richie, Bill, and Mike all grab a suitcase from Eddie. As they roll them inside, Richie snorts. “Jeez, Eds, did you pack up your whole house?”

“No,” Eddie retorts. “But I decided I’m gonna stay a few days after the wedding.”

Richie arches an eyebrow. They’re falling a few steps behind: Ben leads the charge to the elevator while Mike and Bill have resumed some previous conversation. “Really?” Richie finally asks. “That’s pretty cool.”

“It is.” Eddie preens. “It’s my ‘you made it through your divorce alive and intact’ gift to myself.”

“You got divorced three years ago, dude.”

Eddie flips him off again. “We _separated _three years ago,” Eddie corrects, voice sharp. “The paperwork was finalized six months ago, so I’m finally a free man.” Richie knew the divorce was hard, but the last time Richie had seen Eddie, things were actually going pretty well.

“What!? I had no idea!”

Eddie doesn’t look at him as he says, “Well, you never called.” 

Richie had raised his hand to slap at Eddie’s back, congratulatory in that way Eddie always hated, but now Richie lets his hand fall to his side instead. “Congrats, man,” he says. He wants to apologize for not calling, or maybe make a remark like_ you never called either_ but Beverly bounding into the lobby distracts them all. 

“Eddie!” Beverly treats Eddie the same way she treated Richie at the airport: with an enormous hug full of laughter, except she doesn’t leap into his arms quite the same way, probably because they’d both go toppling over. The display catches people’s attention from all around the lobby but none seem to care too much.

Ben wanders over at that moment with a luggage cart. “We’re all on the same floor so I figured we might as well show you guys your rooms,” he says with a nod to Richie and Eddie. He passes them each a card key and then motions for them to follow.

“We’re gonna go get some food,” Mike says as he and Bill start off in the other direction.

“Remember, dinner is at six tonight!” Beverly hollers after them. Bill shoots her a thumbs up and then they’re gone. 

It’s kind of a tight fit in the elevator with the four of them and the luggage cart, so it’s probably to be expected that Richie ends up crammed in one corner with Eddie uncomfortably close to his front. He ignores this—like he ignores the scent of Eddie’s strawberry shampoo and herbal cologne—and says, “Wait, what dinner?”

Beverly rolls her eyes affectionately. “Losers dinner. It’s been a while since we were all together.”

“It was in the invite,” Eddie adds, peering over his shoulder at Richie.

“Riiiight,” he drawls. “Got it, I remember.” And he does, it’s just that that memory is commingled with the memory of realizing Eddie would also be here because _of course he would_, they’re all still friends, and oh god _Eddie_. It’s not an entirely pleasant memory; Richie just kind of blocked the whole thing out aside from saving the date. Richie coughs as a lump forms in his throat. “It’s not fancy or anything, right?”

“Nah, just a local restaurant,” Ben answers from the other side of the elevator. He’s kind of trapped by the luggage cart. “Jeans and stuff are fine.”

The elevator dings and with some careful maneuvering they all come pouring out of the elevator, Ben and the cart first and Richie last. He hangs behind a pace or two—hard to manage when he’s the tallest of them all—and lets Ben and Beverly lead the way.

“You guys are next to each other, hope that’s okay,” Beverly says as she stands beside a door marked _406_. Ben walks a few more steps with the cart before stopping at _408_. “Bill and Mike are in _407_.” She points at the room across the hall. “Then Ben and I are in the suite at the end.” She points back the way they came, where at the end of the hallway are two huge doors. 

“Thanks Bev,” Richie steps around her and taps his key card against the door. The light flashes green before there’s the telltale click of the lock. “I’m gonna get settled.” He does another short bow, mimes the tipping of his hat, and then hurries inside his room. He shuts the door on the sound of Ben asking, _“Is Richie okay?”_

Richie thinks maybe Eddie scoffs, but he can hear Beverly say, _“Yeah, he’ll be fine.”_

Richie presses his forehead against the door and sighs. _Hope you’re right, Bev._

Richie takes a shower even though he took one last night before his flight. His clothes smell stale and even though it all in his head, he swears he still smells like the weird scent of _airplanes_. He strips down, cranks the water as hot as it will go, and tries to ignore the fact that Eddie is just a room away.

He hasn’t seen Eddie in over a year. Despite knowing for ages that they’d both be at this wedding, Richie finds himself entirely unprepared to deal with seeing the other man again. Not that he doesn’t want to see him—because, Christ, Richie wants nothing more than to see him, to hug him, to ruffle his hair or get smacked trying. 

Eddie looks good. Richie thinks that whole “finally a free man” thing holds some weight. Obviously, Eddie had been a wreck after the fiasco in Derry; Eddie had nearly _died_, of course he was a fucking wreck. It was a three week stay in the hospital and two major surgeries before the doctors stopped muttering “He’s lucky to be alive.” One week into the stay, Myra had shown up and that...that hadn’t been pretty. 

The divorce (_separation_, Richie thinks as he sticks his face under the spray) pretty much happened in the hospital room with an oxygen tube looped around Eddie’s face and the rest of the Losers standing outside. Myra stormed out after, by Richie’s count, seven minutes on the dot and he hasn’t seen her since.

That was three and a half years ago. Three and a half years ago, give or take a few weeks, they all got out of Derry for the final time. 

Richie sighs and shakes off the memories. Thinking about that stupid kissing bridge won’t do him any good. From the bathroom counter, his watch starts to beep so he does a last cursory rinse before finally shutting off the water and stepping out. 

He doesn’t have any kind of beauty routine other than to attempt brushing his hair and rinsing out his mouth with Listerine; he gets dressed in a clean pair of shorts and some faded t-shirt. For a minute, he considers doubling back into the bathroom to shave but decides against it at the last minute. 

Once he’s dressed with nothing to do, he looks around his room. A nice queen bed takes up most of the space along with the dresser that sits against one wall, housing the minifridge and television. Beside the dresser is a pale white door that Richie noticed as soon as he set his shoulder bag down, and then promptly decided to ignore. Because it’s the door that connects his room to Eddie’s, and even though he knows it’s locked, it’s like the mere existence of the door is some kind of mockery.

He’s sorely tempted to try the knob and see if the door swings open—but even if it did, he knows he’d get an earful from Eddie.

Hell, that’s half the fucking appeal right there. Eddie hasn’t shouted at him in years, not even playfully. 

Richie scrubs a hand over his face and digs his shoes out from where he kicked them under the hotel bed. He sits to pull them on and knot the laces and then he keeps sitting; he feels out of sorts, but he’s got no one to blame but himself. He kept in touch with Ben, Bev, Mike, Bill; it was just Eddie who fell to the wayside and it’s not as accidental as Richie has tried to make it seem. And Eddie seems to know that. 

With a groan, Richie stands. He checks his watch—barely a quarter past one by now—and decides _hey, it’s five o’clock somewhere_. He double checks that he’s got his wallet and that the key card is tucked into the trifold, and then he’s striding toward the door and pulling it open.

He steps into the hallway the same moment Eddie steps out of his own room.

“Oh,” Richie says lamely. 

Eddie raises an eyebrow.

“Just,” Richie speaks haltingly, “Forget it, nevermind.” He turns sharply and hurries toward the elevator; even though Eddie follows him at a more sedate pace, they still end up waiting side-by-side for the elevator to arrive. 

“You have a good flight?” Eddie asks as the wait ticks on. 

“Uh, yeah. Took some, uh, anti-anxiety meds to get me through the worst of it.”

This time, instead of snorting or scoffing or arching an eyebrow, Eddie turns to Richie with a look of surprise. “What?”

Richie blinks. “What, a dude can’t take care of his own mental health?”

“No!” Eddie half-shouts. “No, that’s not what I mean. I just…” His hand lands on his fannypack. This one is drastically different from the one he had as a kid, mainly because it’s got a pride 2019 sticker on it from New York Pride. The gesture seems unconscious but speaks volumes all the same. 

“I know I gave you a lot of shit for your meds, but they aren’t _always_ gazebos.” A pause, and then Richie chances a grin.

Eddie grins back and the hand resting on his fannypack reaches out to shove at Richie’s shoulder instead. “Asshole,” he mutters, just as the elevator dings. 

The air is a little less tense as they step inside the box; Eddie’s closest to the buttons so he hits ground floor before leaning up against the wall. 

“Where are you off to?” Richie asks. 

“Dunno,” Eddie replies. “I’m hungry as fuck, though. The plane food looked disgusting.” He wrinkles his nose, the same way he did when they were kids, and Richie can’t help but laugh.

“Maybe we can scope out something together.”

“If we spoil our appetites, Bev will kill us.”

Richie scoffs. “Please, when have you ever known me not to clean my plate?”

Eddie pretends to think about it. “Maybe we should’ve been calling you Trash_can_ Tozier all this time,” he says thoughtfully. 

Richie aims a playful kick at Eddie’s shins and the other man slides out of the way. Richie’s about to go at it again when the elevator jerks to a stop and the doors slide open. Richie gestures for Eddie to go first and he does, but he waits just a few steps outside the elevator for Richie.

He’s staring, brows drawn together and lips pursed. Richie feels decidedly scrutinized. Eddie used to do this when they were younger, too. He’d stare at Richie like he was a puzzle to take apart and piece back together again; Richie’s never had the nerve to ask just _what_ Eddie is trying to solve. 

He still doesn’t have the nerve now. 

“So…” Richie shoves his hands into the pockets of his shorts and bounces on the balls of his feet. “Lunch?” 

Eddie seems to snap out of whatever reverie he’s in. “Uh, pass. I’ll see you at dinner.” Eddie hesitates a moment longer before nodding to himself and hurrying off. 

Richie stands there watching him leave until other people come tumbling out of the elevator, running right into him. Richie stumbles out of the way and stumbles off in the direction Mike and Bill went earlier in a daze. 

**To: Bill  
** _where the fuck is dinner at_

**From: Bill  
** _just come back to the hotel. we’re in the happy couple’s room_

“Jesus,” Bill says as he opens the door once Richie’s knocked. “Are you drunk?”

“I’m buzzed.” Richie leans heavily on the door jamb. “Tipsy at most.”

Bill rolls his eyes. He steps back and Richie comes tripping into the room. Really, it’s more like an apartment. It’s stupidly large, with a couch and a California king-sized bed; there’s a full bathroom that Richie catches sight of as Bill shoves him deeper into the room. The bathroom looks bigger than Richie’s whole apartment, almost. 

All the other Losers are spread around the room: Mike is on the bed with Beverly and their pouring over what look like room service menus; Ben is fiddling with a tie, his shirt sleeves rolled up to his elbows, and Eddie’s helping him fiddle with the tie, mostly by yanking it out of his hands and saying, “No! No tie!” 

Richie leans forward to hook his chin over Bill’s shoulder. “I missed this,” he says. 

“Me too,” Bill replies softly. Then, “Just a warning, Trashmouth is drunk!”

“Richie!” Ben admonishes, but he’s grinning and his cheeks are a little flushed. “Can’t believe you got started without us.”

Richie holds up his hands in surrender. “My bad, first round is on me!” He stumbles past Bill toward the couch and sprawls onto it, kicking one leg over the arm.

“God forbid you sit like a normal human being,” Eddie retorts. He’s still keeping the tie away from Ben. “What are we supposed to do if any of the rest of us wanna sit down?”

Richie gestures to his lap and throws in a wink for good measure. Eddie definitely blushes—Richie’s heart thuds heavily in his chest—and looks away. “What’s the plan?” Richie says loudly. “It’s five past six, and I am _starving_.” 

“Did you not eat lunch?” Bev asks from the bed.

Richie has to think about it; he tilts his head back and squints at the ceiling. “Yes…? Maybe. Definitely maybe.”

“Oh my god,” Eddie mutters. 

“I got distracted,” Richie says. “And I was told there’d be dinner!”

“The original plan was this restaurant near the beach,” Mike says. “But something went wrong with the reservations, so we were thinking room service and a party in here.”

Richie sits up a little straighter with interest. “Are you saying we’re going to have a sleepover? Six, forty-three-year-old adults are going to have a _sleepover_?” He splits into a grin. “We’re gonna need more alcohol.”

“We can just,” Bev says, waving the room service menu around.

“No, c’mon, that shit is way overpriced. Seventeen bucks for a bottle of shitty wine?” Richie jumps up from the couch and only teeters to the side a little bit. “There’s a corner store like, two blocks from here. We pick up some juices, sodas, liquor, and we have ourselves a fucking party.”

Silence blooms after his exclamation. 

“Or...not?” Richie says. 

Beverly snorts. “Okay, fine. Mike, Ben, you’re in charge of ordering the food.” She slides off the bed and adjusts her slinky skirt and baggy t-shirt. “Richie and I will go pick up the booze.” 

“I’ll come with,” Bill chimes in. “Knowing you two, you’ll need an extra set of hands.” 

Richie shrugs. “The more the merrier. What about you, Eddie Spaghetti?” 

Eddie seems surprised by the offer. 

“Or do you still drink top shelf vodka and nothing else?” Richie grins. “Only the finest for my Eds, right?” 

Eddie’s cheeks pink again. “I’ll drink whatever, Trashmouth, as long as you’re buying.” 

Richie salutes Eddie and then turns to Bev and Bill. “Tally-ho, then!” He slings an arm around each of their shoulders and steers them toward the door.

Beverly at least has the kindness to wait until they’re in the lobby before asking, “So what’s up with you and Eddie?” 

Richie groans. “No, no, no. Can we not do this?”

“Nope, we’re doing this,” Bill says. He wraps his arm around Richie’s waist, and Bev does the same, and they walk out of the lobby and to the streets. “What’s going on?”

Richie groans and tilts his head back, letting the arms around his waist guide him. “I fucked up,” he finally admits, because if he can’t admit it to these two, who the fuck _can_ he tell? “Year and a half ago,” he starts. His thoughts are swimming from the booze but he forces his mouth to work. “I had a string of shows in the New York area, and I was hosting SNL, it was a whole thing.”

“I remember that,” Bev says. “I made Ben stay up so we could watch the episode live.”

Richie snorts. “So you saw how bad I bombed, right?” He shakes his head ruefully, and continues without waiting for a response. “Of course, I got shit-faced at the afterparty. Or like, the after-after-party because I guess Lorne doesn’t like alcohol on stage or whatever.”

“Richie,” Bill chides gently.

“Right, right. So we go to the bar down the block and of course, Eddie was in the audience because I had pretty much begged Lorne to make it happen, right? So of course, he comes with.” Richie sighs. “But Eddie wasn’t drinking, and I was, and…” A lump catches in his throat. 

“We’re here,” Bev says. She shares a look with Bill. “Why don’t we sit down for a second?”

Richie’s sobering up, either because of the fresh air or because of the uncomfortable memories he refuses to push away this time, but he still lets his friends help him to the bench. He practically collapses against the hard wood and metal.

“Okay, Richie, spill it.” Bev sits to his right and Bill on his left. “We don’t have all day,” Bev teases with a nudge of his foot.

“I kissed him,” he admits in a rushed whisper. “Got shit-faced, he took me back to his place cuz he said I could stay with him and the whole week of rehearsals and shit for SNL was fine and then the episode bombed so fucking bad and I got drunk and we got back to his place and I fucking kissed him. In his fucking living room.”

Bill gasps, “In his _fucking _living room?” in a mocking tone.

Richie laughs abruptly, chokes on it, and laughs harder. “Fuck you, Bill.” He sits forward and braces his elbows on his knees, shoulders still shaking with laughter. The panic that had been filling his chest starts to settle; judging by the way Beverly’s and Bill’s eyes are boring holes in his back, he’s pretty sure his friends have always known about his feelings for Eddie.

“So, what’s the problem?” Bill asks. 

Bev sighs. “_Obviously_, Richie kissed him, freaked out, and hasn’t spoken to Eddie since.” The glare Bev gives him speaks volumes—mainly because he’s kept this under wraps for so long.

“You haven’t spoken to Eddie in a year and a half!?” Bill snaps, smacking Richie upside the head for good measure.

“Technically,” Richie says, “I haven’t spoken to Eddie in like, twenty minutes.” 

A pause before identical groans from both his friends fill the air. 

“Fuck, Richie.” Bill stands. “You’re an idiot.”

Richie stands too and holds out a hand for Bev, who takes it with a roll of her eyes. “You say this like it surprises you, Big Bill,” Richie says. “C’mon, we’ve got alcohol to buy.”

“Don’t think we’re done here,” Beverly warns.

“Hey, I’ll have you know I have a plan!”

Richie watches Bill and Bev share an unimpressed stare in the glass of the door to the corner store. 

“I do,” Richie insists before pushing into the store. 

Thankfully, the other two let the topic drop for the moment and instead the three of them end up bickering over the best stuff to buy and what’s going to be easiest to get back to the hotel on foot. They end up with two six-packs of beer, three bottles of wine, a bottle of vodka, a bottle of whiskey, two twelve-packs of sodas, and a jug of orange juice. 

By the time the three of them make it back to the hotel room, Richie is pretty sure his arms have been replaced by noodles; carrying two twelve-packs and a jug of orange juice is way harder than it probably should be. 

“Jesus,” Ben murmurs as they get everything situated on the coffee table in front of the couch. “Are you sure this was cheaper than getting it with room service?”

“Yes,” Richie says at the same time Beverly says, “It definitely wasn’t.” 

Richie rolls his eyes. “Whatever, did you order room service? I’m still fucking starving.

Richie is sprawled out on the plush carpet floor. He’s still in his shorts and t-shirt from earlier, and he’s kind of wishing he had stopped by his room to get pajamas like Eddie, Bill, and Mike all did. He’s comfortable enough, he just thinks he might be _more_ comfortable in pajamas, instead.

“You’re thinking out loud again, Trashmouth,” Bill says from where he’s cozied up on the couch with Mike. The television is playing low in the background and Bev is dealing them all another hand of cards for poker. 

“When am I _not_ thinking out loud?” Richie fires back, garnering chuckles from his friends. 

He sits up with only a mild struggle. The room service had arrived not long after he, Bev, and Bill got back to the room and it had helped to sober him up further. Then, at one point, he looked over right as Eddie was bringing a neatly sliced piece of steak to his lips and it’s so stupid but Richie had decided he could _not_ be sober for this.

He’s drunk again, even more drunk than before, and he forces himself to move slowly lest he go toppling over. He makes it into the little circle of his friends and leans himself up against the desk chair. Someone flicks his ear, and when he looks up, he realizes Eddie is in the chair now—it was Ben earlier, wasn’t it?

“Ben is over here,” Beverly says, shrugging her right shoulder. 

“Jesus, Richie,” Eddie says. There’s something indecipherable about his tone. He sounds concerned, and kind of mad, and confused. He flicks Richie’s ear again but then, in a move that makes Richie’s heart skip a beat, he rests his hand on the mop of Richie’s curls. He doesn’t stroke through them (which is just as well because they’re probably tangled as fuck) but he does toy with a single stray curl, wrapping it around his finger before releasing it, over and over again.

“Am I dealing you in this time, Richie?”

He shakes his head. Eddie’s hand doesn’t move. Richie knows Bill is watching them both with hawkish eyes, but Richie doesn’t have the energy to try and wordlessly tell him to knock it off.

All Richie really has the energy to do is tilt his head against the chair, pushing into Eddie’s hands, and watch as Ben gets his ass handed to him at poker.

There’s a Bluetooth speaker blaring out a slightly tinny version of some top hit or another. Richie looks around, dazed and still drunk, as Bev and Ben dance in the center of the room. Mike and Bill are on the couch, making _eyes_ at each other. Richie’s pretty sure they’re drunker than he is at this point. 

“What a bunch of disasters,” Richie says, loud enough to be heard but everyone ignores him anyway.

“You’re one to talk,” Eddie says beside him. “Showing up drunk right off the bat.”

“Again, I was _buzzed_.” Richie swallows the annoyed edge in his voice. “I needed a little liquid courage, let a guy live.” 

“Liquid courage for what? Your brilliant plan to hit up the corner store?” There’s an undercurrent to his voice that sounds like real curiosity and Richie immediately regrets his little confession. 

Richie looks pointedly at Eddie’s plastic cup with a half-drank vodka soda. “It _was_ a brilliant idea, wasn’t it?” He says with a grin.

Eddie rolls his eyes and doesn’t press. 

“We could call the front desk for more blankets?” Ben looks over at the phone on the bedside table. It’s late, and Richie can practically _feel_ how much he doesn’t want to inconvenience anyone. 

“Our rooms are right down the hall,” Bill points out. 

“But if we go back to our rooms, it’s not a sleepover!” Richie says loudly. He says it not because he wants to sleep on a floor of a hotel room, but because Bill definitely is trying to get him and Mike back to the room for _sex_ and Richie wants Bill to know that Richie knows.

Bill rolls his eyes and flips Richie off, so: mission accomplished. 

“Alright,” Richie says. “But I’m taking the whiskey with me.” There’s not a ton left, but enough to keep his pleasant buzz going until he passes out tonight. “C’mon, Eddie Spaghetti, I’ll walk you to your door, like the gentleman I am.”

Immediately the room is a chorus of Eds snapping, “Don’t call me that!” and Beverly’s infectious laughter and Mike snorting, saying, “When have you _ever_ been a gentleman, Richie?”

Richie basks in it all until Ben herds them all—him, Eddie, Bill, and Mike—out of the hotel room. “Remember,” Ben says before shutting the door, “Brunch at eleven-thirty, rehearsal dinner is at six in the banquet hall.” 

The door shuts and locks with a quiet _click_ and Richie turns to grin at his friends. Except, Bill and Mike are already striding down the hallway to their room, and they can barely keep their hands off each other. Richie pulls an exaggerated face and looks at Eddie.

“At least you waited for me,” Richie says. 

“Only so I make sure you get to your room fine. The last thing Bev and Ben need is you getting in trouble for passing out in the hallway.”

Richie shoves one hand in his pockets with a shrug. His other hand is clammy around the neck of the whiskey bottle. “I’m sure the hotel has seen worse.”

Eddie sighs like he can’t quite believe Richie, and like he didn’t expect anything less. 

The walk back to their rooms is short and Richie finds himself hesitating before pulling out his keycard. Eddie stops, too. He’s got his card out but he doesn’t make a move to get closer to his door.

Richie swallows his fear that feels a lot like bile and too-much-whiskey and says, “Eddie—” just as Eddie opens his mouth. “Wait, uh, did you. You go first.”

Eddie shakes his head. “No, you go.”

“Uh.” Richie isn’t totally sure what he wants to say. _Sorry? I love you? I’m an idiot?_ They’re all true. He thinks about his earlier remark about liquid courage and wishes he was drunker, wishes Eddie wasn’t looking at him caught between imploring and angry. 

“Okay, I _will _go,” Eddie says. “I’ve missed you.” His voice is soft but sharp. It’s familiar; Richie remembers it from their childhood, the voice Eddie would use when someone (usually Richie) was being stupid. 

Richie tenses. He looks around the hallway, because suddenly this seems like too public a place to be having this conversation, nevermind the fact it’s nearly four in the morning. The hallway around them is dead silent. His voice is equally quiet when he replies. “I missed you too.”

“Did you?” Eddie scoffs. “Did you know I called all of our friends, after you stopped calling me regularly, to make sure no one else had forgotten me?”

Richie’s blood runs cold. “Oh, fuck, Eddie, I didn’t forget you—I never—?”

“No, you _did_ forget me, once. We all did. And I don’t hold that against you. But do you know how scared I was when you stopped talking to me for a _month_?” Eddie crosses his arms over his chest and looks away, blinking rapidly. The lights of the hallway glint off the tears clinging to his eyelashes. 

“I’m sorry, Eds.” Richie looks down at his shoes. “I...I didn’t even think of that.”

“Christ. You didn’t even let me know you got home safely.” Eddie shakes his head. “And then you do finally let me know you’re alive and it’s in a fucking group text about your latest tour. I can count the number of texts we’ve exchanged since you were in New York on both hands.” 

Richie’s neck burns with shame. “I…” He lifts his head and startles when he realizes Eddie is staring right at him, gaze hard and hurt. “I’m so fucking sorry, Eds. I just…After how badly the show went, I just kind of...shut down for a bit. I couldn’t deal with everything. Not like, in a, a depressed way or anything.”

Eddie’s expression softens only slightly. 

“Just, I needed some time.” _Time_, he thinks with a laugh. _A year and a half is probably more than enough time. _Richie scuffs his shoe along the carpet and drops Eddie’s gaze again. The silence is heavy—enough to be uncomfortable, too much so to snap back to some kind of normalcy. Words are piling up on Richie’s tongue but he doesn’t know how to parse through them or get out what he really wants to say.

Eddie saves him, thankfully. “The show really didn’t go as bad as you thought. So you broke character a couple times to laugh. It was good. You did great. Flubbed some lines, whatever.”

Richie’s head snaps up and he stares in awe at Eddie. “You think so?”

“I told you that! After the show!” Eddie laughs. “You were,” he hesitates, eyes going unfocused for a second before he blinks and says, “You were really drunk, you probably just don’t remember.” The air is expectant and empty after he speaks. “You probably don’t remember much from that night,” he adds. 

Embarrassment burns at Richie’s cheeks. He does remember; he remembers that little moment, now that Eddies mentioned it, and he remembers the rest of the night, too. “I’m still sorry about that, too. It wasn’t cool of me to make you take care of my drunk ass.”

Eddie pauses, then shrugs. “What are friends for?” He asks. He looks at Richie like he did earlier, scrutinizing and calculating. Then, “Goodnight, Richie. Try not to choke on your vomit overnight.” Despite the gruesome lilt of his words, Eddie is grinning; Richie grins too.

“Sweet dreams, Eds. Dream of me!” He says with a wink. 

Eddie doesn’t dignify that with a response as he lets himself into his room and shuts the door with a decisive _snap_. 

Richie stands outside his room a moment longer, until he hears some familiar half-laughs, half-moans coming from across the hall, and then it’s like he can’t get into his own room fast enough. 


	2. day two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I’m serious,” Eddie says as he leans into Richie, bumping him and making him lilt. “I’m going to fucking hate you tomorrow.”
> 
> “I think I can handle it,” Richie says. “I’ve been weathering your love-disguised-as-hatred for me for years.”
> 
> The light is low now but Richie could swear the tips of Eddie’s ears are burning. 
> 
> “This is fun,” Richie says when the silence gets to be too much. “Thanks for coming, Eds.” 
> 
> “Stop calling me that,” is the instinctual reply, followed by, softer, “It is fun. Thank you for asking me.”

Richie has his face in his hands at brunch and Eddie’s laughing at him. “Kill me, Eds, kill me and fill me with stuffing and let my taxidermy-self be a best man. My skin-sack will do a better job than I ever could.”

Eddie gags slightly as he says, “Beep beep, Richie. It’s too early for that shit.”

Richie slowly puts his head on the tabletop and winces when a passing wind feels like it’s going to take his head clean off. “I’m not going to drink for the rest of this stupid wedding.”

“I’ll believe that when I see it,” Beverly says. “Besides, mimosas are here.”

Richie sits up a little too fast, wincing. “Well, you know what they say about hair of the dog.” He holds out his glass and Bev rolls her eyes as she fills his cup nearly to the brim. Richie stares at the liquid, takes in the scent of citrus mixed with top shelf vodka, lets his stomach roil and settle, before knocking half the drink back in one go.

Across the table, Bill tells him, “If you vomit on me, I will kill you.”

“Serves you right for being so loud last night,” Richie quips as he gasps for breath. His chest feels tight and his gut feels kind of like a bubbling cauldron. Maybe that _was _a little too much hair of the dog, too fast. “Fuck, okay, I’m an idiot.”

“What else is new.” Eddie reaches out and drops a straw into Richie’s cup. At Richie’s confused glance, Eddie says indignantly, “To slow you down at least a _little_.”

Richie peers at the straw then shrugs. “Gee thanks, Eds. At least _someone_ cares.”

He gets a piece of bacon tossed at his face for the remark, and he still drinks his mimosa too fast even with the straw. 

He does feel better by the time they’re all standing up to leave. Food helps, and the way Eddie smiles at him, like it hasn’t been a year and a half since they last got together, like Eddie maybe really has forgiven him that easily, also really helps. Beverly and Ben are off to meet up with their family members that are arriving, and Bill and Mike apparently booked some sort of day excursion with fish or something, so not long after brunch ends, Eddie and Richie are alone, loitering in the lobby.

“I gotta get my tux hemmed,” Richie says. The silence isn’t quite awkward, but it’s a near thing. 

“I already did mine.”

“Yourself? You hemmed your own suit?”

Eddie rolls his eyes at Richie’s incredulity. “Do I seem like the kind of man who wants unknown fingers poking and prodding me with needles that have poked and prodded who knows how many other people? You think they sterilize those needles, Richie? Please.”

Richie blinks after the tirade is over. “It’s nice to know some things never change.” He grins in the face of Eddie’s glare. “Well, unless you wanna watch me get poked and prodded by unsterilized needles, I guess this is where we part ways.”

“You’re so dramatic. I will literally see you in five hours.” 

“But that’s so _long_, Eddie Spaghetti!”

Eddie’s smile is fond. “Go. If you miss your appointment and show up tomorrow with high waters, Ben might actually kill you.”

Richie dresses up for the rehearsal dinner, albeit not in his deep magenta tuxedo that’s sitting in the closet of his hotel room, clean-pressed and ready for Richie to inevitably wrinkle it. No, Richie shows up to the banquet room in his best pair of gray slacks with a deep navy shirt; he even made an attempt at taming his hair, although he’s not entirely sure how successful he was.

He’s hoping to slip into the room unnoticed but almost the second he sets foot on the shining tile floor, someone shouts “Richie!” and next thing he knows he’s being swept up by Beverly’s aunt and he can see Ben’s mom approaching from across the hall. He makes nice as long as he can and even bites his tongue on a couple more colorful swears—why he bothers is a mystery, since virtually everyone knows by now how he is—until he hears someone say, “Give the guy some breathing room.”

It’s Bill looped arm-in-arm with Mike. They both flash dazzling smiles at the moms and aunts and other family members loitering around, charming in way that Richie feels he used to have locked down but simply doesn’t anymore. The distraction of Bill and Mike’s arrival is enough to let Richie slip away and hurry over to the punch bowl.

“Barely got outta there alive, I see,” Beverly teases him as she meets by the bowl. 

Richie shakes his head. “When did a bunch of old ladies get so overwhelming?”

Beverly shrugs and accepts a drink from Richie. “Hell if I know.”

“What, is Richie struggling to charm unsuspecting old ladies that aren’t my mother?” Eddie chimes in, rather loudly, as he approaches them. 

“Fuck off, man,” Richie fires back with a laugh. “Your mom _loved_ me.”

“My mother would’ve liked to tie an anvil around your ankle and send you out into the Atlantic.” Eddie takes Richie’s glass of punch from his hand and makes a face after a single sip.

“There’s a sugar free version,” Beverly tells him swiftly when Eddie opens his mouth.

Mouth snapping shut with a click, Eddie turns to where she’s pointing and wanders over to the other punchbowl.

“Really though, Bev. Punch at a rehearsal dinner?”

“Well,” she drawls, “We couldn’t have an open bar because then at least thirty percent of everyone would get shit-faced.” She gives him a pointed look. “And we didn’t want to do wine because it’s expensive, and again, _shit-faced_.” She gestures to the punchbowls and tables full of hors d’oeuvres. “Besides, this shouldn’t actually take too long.” 

“I sure hope not, cuz these hors d’oeuvres are not gonna tide me over for long.” 

They’re an hour in when Richie leans over to Eddie and whispers, “Will you kill me _now_?”

“Only if you kill me too,” Eddie whispers back. 

“Deal.” Richie grins at Eddie before forcing his attention back to Bill, who’s been working through his speech and making edits as he goes. It’s making his speech take three times as long and even Ben’s patience wore out about ten minutes ago. Finally, Bill stands up a little straighter and clears his throat again. Richie mutters, “Finally,” and Eddie kicks him under the table. 

Bill clears his throat a second time before starting, in a voice that only wavers slightly, “We’ve all been through a lot, plenty of stuff we’d rather forget. Some stuff we _did_ forget. At least for a little while.” He pauses, grinning ruefully, and Richie finds himself snickering along with the rest of the Losers. “But if there’s one thing that’s withstood the test of time, it’s Ben and Beverly, and their relationship.”

Everyone _‘aws’_ accordingly, and even Richie finds himself kind of moved, even if it’s sort of cheesy. He looks over at Eddie and isn’t surprised to see the other man surreptitiously dabbing at his eyes with a napkin. Richie nudges him gently and when Eddie scowls at him, Richie reaches out and lays his hand over Eddie’s free hand and squeezes gently. 

Eddie swallows and twists his hand so he can link fingers with Richie. 

Everyone claps and nods and Ben and Beverly both raise their cups full of punch and then Ben stands. “Thanks for that, Bill. I actually liked the ending.”

Richie snorts and Bill’s mouth drops open in surprise; beside him, Mike is bent over in laughter and Eddie sounds like he’d need his inhaler if he still used one. 

Ben grins, pleased and pink. “Now for the last speech of the night, a fitting end, probably: Richie!”

Richie blinks. He looks around, confused, especially as Eddie takes his hand back to clap. 

“Uh,” Richie looks over to Ben. “I didn’t _actually _write anything.”

Beverly smirks at him from across the table. “I know,” she tells him proudly. “So you better write something in time for tomorrow. Try and keep it under five minutes.” 

Richie groans. “A guy makes one joke about writing a speech and you guys act like it’s a blood oath!” 

Bill chokes on his sip of punch and Eddie punches him in the arm with a squawk of, “Beep beep, Richie!” Richie flashes him a wide and toothy grin and Eddie huffs…but he’s smiling too. 

“I promise to have something by tomorrow,” Richie says after the laughter and confused murmurs have died down. “I make no promises about the quality.” 

“We’d expect nothing less.” 

The rest of the rehearsal dinner goes pretty quick after that. Ben’s mom gives a quick, teary-eyed speech; Bev’s aunt stands almost freakishly still and stoic as she speaks, except for the end when her voice warbles and she ends up sitting down before she’s done. Bev and Ben give speeches to one another, too, and even though he loves them Richie feels a little awkward watching them stare into each other’s eyes and wax poetic. 

By the time everyone is standing to either mingle or wander away, Richie’s legs are starting to ache and he’s itching for something _fun_. He stands and stretches, looking around the room. Bill and Mike are talking hurriedly to one another, apparently in regards to Bill’s speech. Ben is with Beverly’s family and vice versa, so Richie looks over at Eddie.

Eddie is surveying the room, too, and he jumps when Richie says lowly, “Hey Eds, wanna get outta here?” 

Eddie’s mouth drops open in surprise. 

“Nothing scandalous or untoward.” Richie holds up his hands, makes a show of keeping them in Eddie’s line of sight. “Maybe like, a walk on the beach, or something.” Richie swallows nervously. Suddenly, now that the idea is out of his mouth, it sounds silly. Too forward. 

“Okay,” Eddie says with a smile. “But only if we can pick up some wine or something for the trip.” 

“Your wish is my command, Eddie Spaghetti.” Richie extends his arm for Eddie to look and when Eddie’s fingers curl around his elbow, Richie feels a warmth deep in his gut. 

“I can’t believe you convinced me to leave my shoes back there,” Eddie says as he teeters from side to side, one hand gripped tight around the neck of a wine bottle and the other flung out to help balance him. 

“Would you rather have sand in your shoes?” Richie retorts. his slacks are pushed up to his knees and his calves are wet and covered in sand. He wriggles his toes in the sand under the water lapping at his feet and sighs, pleased. 

Eddie pauses a few paces ahead. He takes a swig of the wine and says, “No, no, you’re right. That’d be worse. As it is, I’m going to fucking hate you tomorrow when I wake up with sand in my shorts.”

Richie snorts and strides toward the other man. Rather than continuing to meander down the beach, Eddie waits for him; he tilts his head back and smiles up at Richie.

“I’m serious,” Eddie says as he leans into Richie, bumping him and making him lilt. “I’m going to fucking hate you tomorrow.”

“I think I can handle it,” Richie says. “I’ve been weathering your love-disguised-as-hatred for me for years.”

The light is low now but Richie could swear the tips of Eddie’s ears are burning. 

“This is fun,” Richie says when the silence gets to be too much. “Thanks for coming, Eds.” 

“Stop calling me that,” is the instinctual reply, followed by, softer, “It is fun. Thank you for asking me.” 

“Course. Couldn’t miss the chance to spend time with my favorite neurotic weirdo, could I?”

Eddie smiles at him. “C’mon, there’s a good spot up ahead. I wanna sit.”

“I could carry you,” Richie offers as he follows Eddie to the patch of sand; he doesn’t point out that the ground is probably covered in germs and shit—like, _literal_ shit—and instead watches as Eddie finds whatever spot he’s deemed “good” and hunkers down to sit. Richie drops to the ground beside him. 

“You might need to,” Eddie allows. “Depending on how much of this wine I get through.” 

“You always were a lightweight, Eds.” Richie leans back and digs his palms into the sand. He has fond memories in high school; Eddie seldom drank with them back then but when he did, it was a _sight_. 

“Better than being shit-faced all the time.” 

Richie looks up from his lap with a wince. There’s venom in Eddie’s voice that wasn’t there a moment ago. “Look, last night—?”

“It’s fine, I get it.” Eddie brings his wine to his lips again and takes an almost _concerningly _long swig. “It’s not like I didn’t consider getting blackout drunk, either.” Eddie twists the bottle in his hand. “I wasn’t sure what it’d be like to see you.” 

Richie swallows. “I’m sorry,” he says hoarsely. 

Eddie shakes his head. “No, no, it’s not...you did your apologizing, last night.” Eddie looks over at him and it’s a soft look, a sad look. He scoots a little closer until his knee can bump Richie’s. “And I, I just kind of sprang my shit on you, which wasn’t really fair.”

“If we’re talking about fair,” Richie interjects, “I’m pretty sure I’ve been the most unfair piece of shit. Like, I’m winning, just so we’re clear.”

Eddie actually smiles for a brief moment. “I just miss my best friend. I missed him when my divorce was in full on nightmare mode, and I missed him when I was in therapy, trying to get _better_, and I missed him on our fucking birthdays and—!”

“Eddie, fuck, I’m _sorry_.” Richie isn’t sure what else to say. 

“I know you are!” Eddie shouts back. “I know you’re fucking sorry, Richie, it’s practically all you’ve said to me since New York.” Eddie takes a deep breath as if to calm himself. 

Richie can’t look at him directly; he toys with a loose thread at the bottom of his shirt instead. 

“Do you even remember that?” Eddie asks with a bitter laugh. “You kissed me, in my fucking living room.” Eddie tilts his head back and shakes his head. “And then you said _sorry_ and holed yourself up in my guestroom and you were gone the next morning.” Eddie sounds annoyed—at Richie, obviously, but annoyed like he can’t believe himself, too. 

“Eds,” Richie whispers. “I didn’t…”

Eddie either doesn’t hear him or doesn’t feel the need to listen. “And then I don’t hear from you! Not even to tell me you got home safe. And it’s not like you’re on social media so I can just check up on your Instagram or, or whatever! You’re never on Facebook. I already told you that I called everyone else to make sure I wasn’t being forgotten _again_.” Eddie’s voice is wet and wavering now and the wine has slipped from his grip. The bottle is empty enough, nothing spills onto the sand. 

Richie wasn’t expecting this, but it feels silly now to think that Eddie’s outburst from last night was all that needed to be said. It’s not even close, and Richie should’ve known better. Except he doesn’t know what to say now, and his heart is pounding with fear. 

“You could’ve called me,” he says quietly.

“No,” Eddie replies sharply. “No, you _kissed_ me and then _ditched_ me. I wasn’t going to come crawling back to you.”

“Jesus, Eddie, I wasn’t trying to hurt you! I never wanted you to come crawling back!” _I just wanted you to be braver than me. I just wanted you to fix what I fucking broke, because I was too scared to even touch it. I just wanted you._

“Well you did, asshole!” Eddie clambers to his feet, staggering slightly. He brushes excess sand off his already ruined slacks and flips Richie the bird. His hand is almost comically close to Richie’s face and were it any other moment, they’d both be laughing. As it is, Eddie groans, “God, I just. I need to get back.”

“Eddie, wait,” Richie says. He reaches out to catch Eddie by the wrist but Eddie yanks his arm out of his grasp. “Eddie!”

“No, Richie! Not right now, okay? Just give me a fucking second. Hell, give me a couple fucking hours. Who knows, maybe give me a year and a fucking half!” 

Richie stares after Eddie as he strides across the sand, slipping and sliding on every odd step when he loses his footing. Richie realizes the other man has made it a couple yards away before he’s scrambling to his feet too and chasing after Eddie. One pant leg has fallen back down and is slapping wetly against his leg and the other is uncomfortably bunched around his knee and making his skin clammy. 

“Eddie, wait!” Richie finally catches up to him, takes him by the elbow, and tugs so Eddie has no choice but to face Richie or tumble into the sand. 

Eddie rounds on him, mouth open in a snarl and eyes wet at the corners, and Richie does exactly what he did a year and a half ago, drunk and stupid and scared and exhilarated: 

He kisses him. 

Eddie goes stiff against him, one hand caught in Richie’s grip and the other fluttering uselessly at his side. For a brief, perfect moment, Eddie kisses him back. It’s gentle and sweet, tastes like the ocean and red wine and it’s every stupid cliché Richie’s ever wanted in his life since he realized he was miserable pretending to be straight. It’s pure bliss, up until the moment Eddie wrenches out of his grasp and stumbles backwards.

“No,” Eddie says again. “I can’t do this, not again.”

“Eds, fuck, I’m—?”

“Do not fucking say you’re sorry, Richie.” Eddie takes a deep breath. “I’m not going to let you jerk me around.”

There’s a flicker of the urge to make a raunchy joke but Richie ignores it, breathlessly saying, “I’m not trying to jerk you around,” as earnestly as he can. He says so much sarcastic shit and regrets it in this moment—regrets that he can’t even take himself seriously, how could anyone else ever do it? 

“Really? Sure feels like it! Invite me to your fucking first time hosting one of the biggest shows on national television, be _all_ over me at the fucking afterparty, _kiss me in my god damn apartment_ and then run like a fucking dog with its tail between its legs? And then have the gall to kiss me _again_, when I’d _just_ started getting over you?” 

Eddie takes a few more steps back. He lets out a wet sound, not quite a sob but something close and just as heart-wrenching. “No, Richie. Not this fucking time. Beep beep, or whatever it’ll take to get it through your head that I can’t fucking do this. Not if you can’t make up your mind about what you want.” 

Eddie stays for a moment but Richie—god, how does Eds _always_ manage to leave him speechless in the worst moments—Richie doesn’t know what to say.

Eddie sniffs and wipes at his eyes. “See you tomorrow, Richie.” 

Richie watches him go. 

Richie stays on the beach until the nighttime air becomes unbearably cold; conversely, the sand feels like hot coals under his feet, or maybe that’s just the burning shame of fucking up, _again_. He finds his shoes where he left them before the walk and notes that Eddie’s are gone. Of course they are. Eddie would never leave his shoes behind. 

Richie doesn’t bother putting on his shoes. He does his best to brush off what he can of the excess sand but he knows he still trails quite a bit into the lobby, the elevator, and down the hall to his room. Key card in his hand, he stares at Eddie’s closed door. He debates knocking, but he’s pretty sure Eddie wouldn’t answer. 

Richie looks over his shoulder at Mike and Bill’s door instead. There’s no sock on the doorknob and no do not disturb sign out. He leaves his shoes by his own hotel door.

Mike answers the door after a moment; he looks a little sleepy, but not quite as if Richie woke him. From inside the room come Bill’s gentle snores. 

“Fuck, sorry, this is stupid,” Richie says, already taking a step back.

Mike grabs him by the shoulder. “Whatever it is, it isn’t stupid.” 

Richie lets Mike gently tug him inside. He lets Mike get him a glass of water and he lets Mike wake Bill and he lets them both side on either side of him on the bed. It’s a lot like the night before, on the bench with Bev and Bill. Except things are worse, because Richie’s an idiot.

Which he explains to them, and which they both confirm for him before sandwiching him in a hug.

“If I weren’t so stupidly in love with Eddie, this would probably be the start of an awesome wet dream,” Richie manages to say when he finally no longer feels like opening his mouth means he’ll cry.

Bill doesn’t reply and Mike only gives Richie a look, something narrow and chiding. 

“Sorry,” Richie says softly. 

“You gotta tell him how you feel,” Mike says instead. “You clearly feel the same way about each other. Frankly, I’m surprised it didn’t happen sooner.”

“Let me direct you back to the ‘I’m an idiot’ conversation from three minutes ago,” Richie says. 

“Yeah, but so is Eddie.” 

Richie looks over at Bill in surprise.

“Don’t get me wrong, you fucked up _big time_.” Bill pauses to let the words sink in. “But how Eddie hasn’t realized you feel the same way is beyond me.” 

“He said he’s finally getting over me, though.”

“He kissed you _back_,” Bill says. “He’s never gonna just get over you. Are you over him? Have you ever been?”

Richie shakes his head immediately; he doesn’t even have to consider the question. 

“Well there you go,” Bill says triumphantly. “Don’t go tell him right now, though. He may actually murder you if you wake him up.”

“When, then? When do I tell him?” Richie hides his face in his hands. “I’ve never done this before. Like, literally ever. Not with anyone I gave an actual shit about.” 

“The price of feelings,” Mike says sagely with a hard pat on Richie’s back. “You’ll know.”

“I’ll _know_?”

“You’ll know,” Bill confirms. 

“You guys are gayer than I am,” Richie mutters. “But thanks.” 

Bill nudges his shoulder companionably and Mike pats his back again, gentler this time. “You’re an idiot,” Bill says.

“But you’re _our_ idiot. So is Eddie. What else are we supposed to do?” 

“Let you two figure this out on your own? It’d probably take another three years.” 

“Okay, I get it, I get it. I’ll get my ass in gear!”


	3. day three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Was Ben’s side of things as much of a madhouse as ours?” Mike asks eventually.
> 
> “Oh yeah. Maybe even worse? But it’s all Ben. He just wants everything to be perfect,” says Bill.
> 
> “Can’t blame him.” Eddie chimes in. “It will be, though. Just like the two of them together. Perfect.” 
> 
> “Jeez, Eds, they should’ve had you write a speech,” Richie jokes

Richie hides in his room until the very last moment that he can get away with it, which happens to be just before eleven in the morning. Bill and Mike stopped by his room, but Richie pretended to be asleep; he thinks Eddie might’ve paused outside his door, but he didn’t knock so Richie can’t be sure. In the end, it’s Beverly who comes and finds him. 

She scares him into action by pounding on Richie’s door like he owes her money. Which, come to think of it, he might. 

He answers the door after haphazardly getting dressed in most of his tux, except he’s still buttoning up his gray shirt as he finally comes face to face with her. She’s not yet in her ivory dress but her hair is done up and her already gorgeous face is dabbed with makeup and she looks _pissed_. 

“Where have you been?” She asks before looking him up and down. “Is everything okay?” 

“Today is not about me,” he says instead of answering her question. “I’m just finishing up getting ready.”

“C’mon, my aunt can help you with your hair.” Beverly reaches out to take him by the elbow but he dances out of her grasp. 

“I thought I did a pretty good job! Besides, I need to grab my jacket.” Richie leaves the door open as he retrieves his jacket from its hanger, carefully shrugging it on before coming back to Bev, who’s impatiently tapping her foot. “You look good,” he tells her honestly, and also to see her smile just a bit.

She does and replies, “Wait till you see the dress.” Then she takes him by the hand and drags him down the hall. 

The suite is a flurry of activity and the majority of it is redheaded women flitting to and fro and Beverly somehow blends into the fray with ease. She drags Richie deeper into the room and he swears it’s the scariest thing he’s dealt with in his life, and he’s not even the one getting married. When he mentions this to Beverly in hushed tones, she scoffs and tells him, “Please, we killed a fucking clown.” 

She sets him up out of the way and promises her aunt will come find him when it’s time; he’s used to makeup and used to people pulling and prodding at his hair to make it appear manageable, so he leans against the wall with his hands in his trouser pockets, and waits. 

It’s not long before Mike appears beside him in a matching maroon-burgundy-purple suit with a gray shirt. Privately, Richie thinks the color scheme works better for Mike than for him, but that’s neither here nor there. 

“This is a madhouse,” Richie says, simultaneously speaking low enough not to be heard by anyone else, but loud enough so Mike can hear him over the murmur of too many people in a confined space. 

“Wishing you were on Ben’s side?” Mike asks with a grin.

Richie thinks of standing beside Eddie while they watch the wedding and then his mind drifts to standing _at_ the altar with Eddie and his hands go clammy in his pockets. “Nah, I’m good here.”

Mike shakes his head. “It’ll be fine.”

Richie gives Mike a carefully crafted look to let him know just how much he believes that—which is to say, not at all. 

Sure enough, Bev’s aunt tries to get Richie to agree to a manbun, even though his hair isn’t quite long enough for it to work, anyway. Beverly herself, in her gown and all, comes over to brush out Richie’s hair when it’s clear her aunt is only going to make things worse. By the end of it, Richie feels he looks like he always does for one of his stand-up shows, albeit a bit more polished thanks to the well-tailored suit. His hair still looks like a rat’s nest but his skin is even-toned and for once his lips aren’t dry, because Bev had threatened him with bodily harm if he didn’t try at least a little chapstick. 

If nothing else, the time flies by and before Richie even thinks to check his watch, it’s time to head down to the ceremony. Things immediately get more and less chaotic. It’s a disaster of figuring out who should go down when to end up where, and who should stay with Beverly, and where’s Ben because “It’s bad luck, you know!”

Richie manages to slip away with Mike and catch an elevator ride down with a couple relatives who look just as stricken by the craziness of the wedding. Richie lets Mike lead the way since even though he tried paying attention during rehearsal, Richie can fully admit he’s got little to no idea what’s happening other than he’s going to stand in front of a room and cry as he watches two of his best friends tie the knot. 

They end up in a small kitchenette type room, with a couple finger sandwiches and a pitcher of ice water, and Bill and Eddie standing off to one side chatting quietly. They’re in suits that match the ivory of Beverly’s dress, and their green ties match the flowers and vines she’s got threaded through her hair. They almost look like brothers, standing side by side like that.

Richie’s mouth goes dry.

Mike greets Bill with a kiss to the corner of his mouth, and Bill says, “Well don’t you two clean up nice?”

“It’s a once in a lifetime opportunity to see me dressed up like this,” Richie replies on autopilot. “Next chance won’t be till your guys’ wedding,” he says with a nod to Mike and Bill.

Bill blushes faintly. “What if we have a different color scheme?” He asks slowly like he already knows the answer.

“That’s what fabric dye is for.”

Eddie makes a wounded sound that turns into a laugh. He doesn’t acknowledge Richie directly, and Richie’s too chickenshit to compliment him in this moment, but the laughter sets Richie at ease, at least a little bit.

“Was Ben’s side of things as much of a madhouse as ours?” Mike asks eventually.

“Oh yeah. Maybe even worse? But it’s all Ben. He just wants everything to be perfect,” says Bill.

“Can’t blame him.” Eddie chimes in. “It will be, though. Just like the two of them together. Perfect.” 

“Jeez, Eds, they should’ve had you write a speech,” Richie jokes 

Eddie just rolls his eyes—doesn’t even _look_ at Richie—but it feels like progress. 

Not long after that, there’s the photographs. It’s kind of an uncoordinated disaster, which is really the best that can be expected. There are pictures of the wedding parties together, some shots of Mike and Bill together; naturally they get some shots of Eddie and Richie. It’s not as awkward as Richie expects it to be; Eddie fits into his arms almost upsettingly well as they do the typical, stupid prom pose. Eddie steps away from him as soon as the moment allows, but Richie doesn’t feel as cold as he expects. 

The wedding itself is, unsurprisingly, beautiful. It’s an indoor wedding but the sunlight streaming in paints everything in a hazy, golden glow that perfectly complements Bev’s skin and Ben’s hair. It’s almost _too_ picturesque, but Richie thinks they all kind of deserve that sort of life, finally. 

He stands at the altar with Mike to his right; Ben is waiting across from him, with Eddie at his side. Bill walks Beverly down the aisle and, with a gentle kiss across her knuckles, helps her step up to the slightly raised platform to stand with Ben. Bill falls in line beside Eddie, and the ceremony begins. 

The priest’s words are sweet and kind but kind of typical (not that Richie has much frame of reference for these things) but Ben’s and Bev’s vows. They’re different than the little speeches they shared at the rehearsal dinner, and they hadn’t shared their actual vows at the ceremony rehearsal either. Richie gets choked up quicker than he thought he would, and he leans against Mike when he feels he might tip over. His legs are shaking as he watches his two best friends spew all sorts of romantic nonsense at each other.

Then he looks at Eddie, who’s dabbing at his eyes with a green handkerchief. Eddie, who’s smiling so wide it looks like it hurts. Eddie, who looks over and catches Richie’s gaze and gives him a slightly sadder smile. A regretful one.

This isn’t the moment, Richie knows. For all that he likes being the center of attention, he could never take this moment away from his friends. But he hates seeing that rueful smile on Eddie’s face and he hates even worse that it’s directed at him. So, no, this isn’t the moment.

But Richie thinks it’s coming soon. 

“And now,” the DJ says, “The first dance for the new bride and groom.”

The opening chimes are immediately recognizable and Richie lets out a startled half-laugh, half-groan. 

_“I’m not that kind of guy who can take a broken heart, so don’t ever leave. I don’t want to see us part.”_

Richie searches the crowd as the lead singer of New Kids on the Block sings, _“I’ll be loving you forever,”_ and as Ben and Beverly twirl in the center of the dancefloor. Richie makes quick eye contact with Bill who looks caught between laughing and crying; beside him is Eddie, who’s grinning wide. 

_“There’s just so much that I wanna say. But when I look at you, all my thoughts get in the way.”_

Richie swallows awkwardly, feeling hot under the collar suddenly. It doesn’t help that just like during the ceremony, Eddie looks over and catches Richie staring. 

_“We’ve gone too far to ever turn back now,” _Jordan Knight warbles. Richie idly wonders if somehow his friends planned this, the song somehow resonating with Richie _so_ much—but then he thinks back to the numerous nights at karaoke that dissolved into Ben and Beverly singing nothing but New Kids. 

Eddie hasn’t looked away and Richie wonders if his thoughts are the same: they _have _come too far. They can’t go back to the way things were. Richie doesn’t _want_ to. 

_“This love will last forever; I can see it all now.”_

Richie finally looks away, overwhelmed. 

The song fades out and the end is swallowed up by the bright applause from the crowd. In the center of the dancefloor, Ben and Beverly share a deep kiss; Richie wolf-whistles just to watch Bev flip him off without having to even look his way.

“Give it up again for the happy couple,” the DJ says. “Now get ready to dance!”

Richie lets out another bark of surprised laughter at the sudden, familiar fiddle solo. Like their lives depend on it, the majority of the crowd heads toward the dancefloor and as easy as breathing, Richie finds himself in some lopsided circle with all of his friends. Ben and Bev haven’t let go of each other and bounce in time to the music; Bill and Mike are singing to one another, laughing. 

It’s just natural for Richie to turn to Eddie and sing-shout, “Come on, Eileen, oh I swear, what he means—!”

It’s just natural for Richie to lean into Eddie’s space and jump and dance around with him as the lyrics _at this moment, you mean everything_ thud a little too meaningfully in Richie’s chest. It’s natural, Richie knows, for Eddie to reach for his hands and for them to twist and bounce like they’re teenagers at their first homecoming. 

Richie thinks, _this could be the moment_, but something holds him back. He holds Eddie’s hands tighter and pulls him closer before pushing him out in something like a twirl. Eddie’s laughter is delighted and surprised and he lets Richie tug him back into his chest. They sway as Dexys Midnight Runners slow it down to sing, _“Now you’re full grown, now you have shown, oh Eileen.”_ And they stay like that, even when the song picks up pace again. 

Eddie only steps in at the end and he gives Richie a private smile. 

They all stumble off the dancefloor a couple songs later to the sound of Bowie fading into the background. The DJ announces it’s time for toasts and dinner.

“We’re going to do things a little different, as some of you already know,” Beverly says, her voice carrying through the hall and lifted by the soft instrumental music still playing. “Our friends are our family, and our friends are also our bridal party, so we’re going to start with their toasts and then we’ll move on to dinner!” She sits with a gesture down the long table where Bill sits, and people clap as he stands. 

Richie doesn’t quite tune out, but it’s a near thing. The speech is similar to the one from last night, with little changes here and there. He can see Bill’s hand trembling a little bit, and Mike reaches out to lay his hand against Bill’s side as he speaks. Richie, unlike the night before when he was bored out of his mind, finds himself actually caught up in Bill’s speech, and the emotion of it, and by the end—Bill left the last line unchanged from last night—Richie has to discreetly wipe his eyes with a napkin.

He doesn’t miss the way Eddie smirks beside him. Bill bows a little and takes his seat and immediately after, Richie stands. He pulls a crumpled-up sheet of paper from the inner pocket of his jacket and raises a champagne flute. 

“Your hair,” he starts, “Is winter fire. January embers.” Titters of laughter and an embarrassed groan from Ben catch Richie’s ear but aren’t enough to stop him. “My heart burns there too.”

Richie pauses before adding, “Sorry, I’m still getting used to writing my own material.” More laughter. He clears his throat and takes a quick sip of champagne before starting again. “I’ve always known Ben and Beverly were destined to be together, because I’ve never known two other people who like New Kids on the Block enough to tell me, on separate unrelated occasions, that they’d like NKotB to play at their wedding.

“Now, of course, the band is not actually here. But we will still be treated to a Best Of concert, and aren’t we _so _blessed?”

Richie basks in the laughter. “Okay, okay, but seriously. I told Ben I had a speech written and they held me to it, so forgive me for being a little rusty.” He swallows. “Ben and Beverly are lucky to have found each other, and I consider myself lucky to be their friend. I think all of us Losers can agree that we’d be a bunch of disasters without them—and I think that goes both ways.

“I remember being a kid and watching as Ben was just, y’know, a _total_ dork.” Titters of laughter, and Eddie’s soft voice muttering _“you’re one to talk,” _fuel Richie on. “And it didn’t help that Bill had a crush on Bev too! It was so awkward! But I remember then, in middle school, when Ben asked for my help asking Beverly to the winter formal. And I remember after we all met up again a couple years ago, I remember Beverly asking me if she was crazy for wanting to be with Ben, even though none of us had seen each other in almost thirty years at that point…” Richie trails off, the words on his little card are starting swim.

“What I’m trying to say is, uh. Told you I’m still getting used to writing my own shit, huh?” Richie laughs nervously. “Ben and Beverly have taught me a lot over the years. I think they’ve taught us all a lot. About forgiveness, and friendship, and not being a dickhead unless you _really_ have to. I’m still working on that last one.

“I’m honored to be one of their friends and to be included in this beautiful event,” he clumsily concludes. “Congrats to Benjamin and Beverly,” his voice is starting to waver so he puts on a southern affect, “I _do_ declare they’re the finest couple I ever did see.”

The accent gets some laughs and somehow, impossibly, the other Losers are crying, and Richie wipes at his eyes again. Nothing happens for a few seconds and despite the teary note still clinging to his voice, Richie says, “C’mon, let’s eat!”

Richie is hanging back and watching everyone on the dancefloor when Ben finds him. 

“They look happy,” Ben says with a nod to where Eddie and Beverly, a duo of ivory and soft greens, are bouncing to Whitney Houston bellowing _“I wanna dance with somebody, wanna feel the heat with somebody!”_

“Yeah they do,” Richie agrees. He sips at his champagne.

“Bev told me what happened between you two.”

“Are you here to tell me to buck up and tell him how I feel, too?”

Ben smiles. “Nah.”

Richie rolls his eyes. “I’m going to. I’m going to tell him.”

“So do it.” Ben reaches out and despite Richie’s protests, takes the glass from his hands and nudges him toward the dancefloor. “Get out there.”

Another shove sends Richie stumbling (really, Ben is too strong for his own good) out into the dancefloor. Bev finds him first and tugs him into twirling in a quick circle that both makes his stomach roil and makes him feel like a kid again. 

Beverly grins at him, a bright and mischievous thing. “You’re gonna do it, right?”

“Shh!” Richie hisses as Eddie dances closer. Beverly just laughs and swings out a hand to link fingers with Eddie too, so they’re in some sort of uncoordinated triangle.

Eddie reaches out to take Richie’s other hand and complete the triangle and they all bounce and twist and scream-sing the lyrics. Eddie detaches to get _way_ into certain parts and Richie’s heart feels like it might pound right out of his chest. He just keeps falling in love with this man, he realizes, every goddamn second. 

“Oh god, I told Ben not to put this song on the playlist!” Beverly laughs and rolls her eyes before excusing herself as Rick Astley croons about never giving you up, letting you down, running around, or deserting you. 

Eddie seamlessly takes her place toe to toe with Richie and they keep dancing. Eddie doesn’t say anything and Richie still doesn’t know what to say but when Eddie grins at him, Richie grins back. It’s fun and harmless, Richie thinks. There’s no pressure, here. No rush. He dances with Eddie and lets his mind clear until the song is ending and a gentle twang of a guitar takes its place.

_“Girl, you’re looking fine tonight. And every guy has got you in his sight. What’cha doing with a clown like me? Surely one of life’s little mysteries.”_

Like a switch has been flipped, the crowd shifts from jumping and bopping around to slow dancing. Some of it is awkward, people seeking out partners—some of it is seamless, like Bill and Mike across the dancefloor. Richie and Eddie fall closer to the former.

Richie stares down at Eddie. Eddie stares back up at Richie. 

“Wanna dance?” Richie asks, mouth dry. 

Eddie brings Richie’s hand to his waist in answer and loops his arms around Richie’s shoulders. 

_“I never saw a second glance way, way across a crowded room was close enough. I could look but I could never touch.”_

“I’m sorry,” Richie blurts. They’re swaying in time to the music and Richie keeps looking at their feet to make sure he doesn’t step on Eddie’s. He gets an arched eyebrow in response to his admission. “I never meant to jerk you around or, or make you think I wasn’t serious.”

Eddie purses his lips.

“I know I fucked up, but I was fucking terrified, Eds. I’ve been in love with you for so goddamn long and that night in New York was the first time it was really just me and you after,” he drops his voice lower, “After Pennywise.”

He continues, “And I got shit-faced because the episode was bad and I just wanted, wanted to do _something_ that felt right. And that was kissing you, because I’ve wanted to kiss you for like thirty fucking years, probably longer. And then last night, you—you have every right to be angry but I didn’t want to lose you again and I didn’t know what to say, and—?”

“Richie,” Eddie says gently. “Breathe.”

_“Don’t anyone wake me if it’s just a dream, cuz she’s the best thing that’s ever happened to me.”_

Richie gulps and forces himself to obey. “I fucking love you, Eddie. I always have and I’m sorry I’ve been too chickenshit to say anything.” He lets out a swooping breath and feels like he might faint. If he leans a little heavier on Eddie, the other man is kind enough not to say anything.

_“If this is love, why does it scare me so?”_

“Richie…” Eddie’s voice shakes. “God, you’re so stupid.”

For a second, Richie’s heart drops into his stomach and he finally looks up from their polished shoes to stare in shock at Eddie—right as Eddie leans up to kiss him. 

It’s the first kiss Eddie has initiated. It tastes faintly like champagne and cake and _Eddie_. Richie squeaks in surprise before pressing back. 

_“What did I do, what did I say, to turn your angel eyes my way?” _

They pull apart to breathe but Richie can’t stop himself from leaning in again, can’t stop himself from pulling Eddie closer by the hips. The song is changing to something fast-paced again but neither of them pay it any mind, content to sway and kiss. 

“Let’s get out of here,” Eddie says against Richie’s lips the next time the kiss breaks. 

“It’s still kind of early.”

“They won’t care.” Eddie looks how Richie feels: dazed from the kiss. “I mean, if you want to. We can stay, too.” One of Eddie’s hands trails from Richie’s shoulder down to his hand; Eddie tangles their fingers together. “As long as I’m with you.” 

For a moment, Richie thinks he might cry. He feels like he’s been waiting his whole fucking life to hear those words. He presses his forehead to Eddie’s and says, “Nah, c’mon, let’s ditch. If Ben’s aunt corners me one more time to try and set me up with another cousin, I’m gonna walk into the ocean.” 

Eddie laughs, squeezes Richie’s hand, and tugs him off the dancefloor. 

They go stumbling into Eddie’s room together; Richie barely remembers to kick the door shut behind them because he’s far more preoccupied with his armful of Eddie, who’s kissing him like his fucking life depends on it. 

“You’re gonna wrinkle the suit,” Richie manages to warn in between biting kisses, as Eddie’s hands roam greedily over his blazer. 

“Like you give a shit.” Eddie finally manages to shove the jacket off Richie’s shoulders before going for his tie. He tugs at the knot and Richie swallows at the feeling of Eddie’s fingertips against his throat.

“Fuck, Eds,” Richie says. His knees are already shaking. “C’mon, you too,” he pleads as Eddie yanks off Richie’s tie and tries to start on the buttons of his gray shirt. 

Eddie pauses long enough to shrug out of his own blazer and tug his tie loose before he’s practically diving back at Richie and nearly ripping at his shirt to get the buttons undone. Richie struggles to keep up. His own hands are shaking as they clumsily undo Eddie’s shirt and then try to pull his belt from its loops. 

“Richie, it’s just me.” Eddie leans back to let his pale green shirt slip from his shoulders and pulls his undershirt over his head and tosses it aside. 

“_Just_ you,” Richie scoffs. “You’ve _never_ been _just_ you, Eds. Fuck.” Richie takes a step back to clear his head and to get his slacks off because if he doesn’t get out of them right this second, he feels like he might actually combust. By the time he looks up from fumbling with his belt and shoving his slacks and boxers down his legs, Eddie’s undressed too, and leaning against the bed. “Seriously. You’ve never been _just_ anything.” 

“Get over here, Richie,” Eddie replies, holding out a hand. 

Richie nearly trips over his own feet in his haste to get to Eddie and they fall, an ungraceful pile of limbs and laughter, on top of the covers. Richie’s knees slide against the soft sheets and Eddie’s squirming to get comfortable and it’s only when their heads knock together that they finally both pause to stare at each other. 

“Sorry,” they say in unison. 

Richie snorts and ducks his head. “Sorry,” he says a second time. “I just...I don’t even know where to start.”

“How do you think I feel?” Eddie asks. 

He cups Richie’s cheek and drags him in for another kiss. It’s wet and deep, languid in contrast to their hurried fumbling from only a few moments prior. Richie lets Eddie guide the kiss; he’s got a sort of experience Richie never would’ve expected and it sends a rush of heat through his body. His toes curl and he surges closer. Eddie’s got one leg between Richie’s thighs and the sensation of skin on skin is almost overwhelming; Richie needs something to clear his head or this is going to be over embarrassingly fast. 

He pulls back and rasps, “I want to suck you off.” 

Eddie coughs. Wheezes, more like. “Yeah, okay.” 

Richie kisses him again before starting a trek down Eddie’s neck, then to his collarbones; he bites at the skin and worries it between his teeth until Eddie’s gasping above him. Richie moves lower still, shimmying down the bed without outright sliding off, and stops when his lips skirt over jagged, uneven skin.

His heart stops in his chest. “Fuck,” he whispers. He pauses where he is and presses his cheek to Eddie’s chest. A hand lands in his hair and toys with a few loose curls.

“I’m okay,” Eddie says. “I’m here. I made it.” 

Richie leans back to get a better look at the scar he’s only seen in passing. It’s a nearly perfect circle, not quite in the middle of Eddie’s chest. The fact that Pennywise managed to miss anything vital was a fucking miracle—an even bigger miracle was the fact they were able to get Eddie out of the cavern at all. 

Richie presses a kiss to the center of the marred, pink skin and lets out a shuddering sigh. “Fuck,” he whispers again. 

The hand in his hair tightens its grip and Richie gasps softly. “C’mon, Richie,” Eddie coaxes. “We’ve both waited long enough for this.” 

“Can’t argue with you there,” Richie mutters. He kisses the spot again before detouring to the left to take one of Eddie’s nipples between his teeth. 

Richie can feel his cheeks burning as he twists the pebbled skin gently between his teeth. There’s still something like shame or fear lingering in the back of his mind; he hasn’t exactly done this _a lot_. And never with someone who meant as much to him as Eddie does. But Eddie lets out a keening moan as Richie sucks and it’s hard to feel anything but _pride_ with noises like that filling the room. 

Richie slides to the other nipple and gives it the same treatment before pulling back to admire the identical red spots on Eddie’s chest. His dick twitches between his thighs and Richie has to count backwards from ten to keep himself in check.

“Any day now, Trashmouth,” Eddie drawls when Richie’s evidently been still too long. 

“My pleasure,” he replies, only half-joking. 

He peppers kisses down Eddie’s chest, relishing the feeling of a soft dusting of chest hair under his lips, relishing it more when it gets thicker close to the v of Eddie’s hips. He dips a little lower and shivers when Eddie’s cock brushes his chin, springing up to hit his cheek. 

He should say something funny, or flirty, but he can’t think of anything, so he takes Eddie’s cock into his mouth instead. 

“Oh, _fuck_!” Eddie cries out as he knots both hands in Richie’s hair. His hips buck and he shoves his cock deeper into Richie’s mouth and it’s _perfect_. Hot and hard against his tongue, the head hitting the back of his throat gently; Richie sinks down until his nose is in the nest of curls at the base of Eddie’s cock. “Fuck, Richie, finally found something your mouth is good for.”

Richie chokes slightly, unable to help his laugh, and it only has Eddie bucking into his mouth again. He brings two hands up and curls them around Eddie’s hips to keep him still. Eddie squirms in his hold and even manages to knee him in the chest hard enough that Richie has to pull off and catch his breath. 

“Jesus, Eds.” Richie laughs, throat rasping and a little sore already. 

“It’s been a while,” Eddie gasps out. “And you look,” Eddie bites his bottom lip on a whimper. “You look good, Richie.”

Praise burns warm in Richie’s chest and he leans down to take Eddie’s cock to the root once more. This time, even when Eddie’s hips buck and even when Richie gags a little and even when Eddie tugs almost too hard on Richie’s hair, this time Richie doesn’t pull back. Richie stays and laves his tongue over the underside and swallows as spit and precome well up in his mouth. 

“Richie, Richie, m’gonna come,” Eddie gasps. “You gotta stop, lay off, hang on.” 

Richie hums something he means to sound like _“no, do it”_ and even though it’s barely more than muffled grunts, Eddie seems to understand. He untangles one hand from Richie’s hair to curl it in the sheets instead, but leaves his other hand knotted in the curls. He tugs on them rhythmically as his breathing hitches, as whining moans spill from his lips, and Richie tries to keep his eyes open but he loses himself in the feeling of Eddie’s cock pulsing against his tongue.

Eddie moans loudly and bucks up one last time as he comes deep in Richie’s mouth, and Richie drinks it all down. Still not his favorite taste, bitter and sticky, but Richie still licks his lips and licks Eddie’s cock clean after. 

“Get up here,” Eddie demands as he yanks Richie up, scrambling for a kiss. Eddie makes a displeased sound as their tongues brush but it quickly turns into a moan. “Your _fucking_ mouth,” Eddie growls. 

Richie just laughs breathlessly. “I love you.”

“I love you too, and I’d really like for you to fuck me now.”

“I would like that too.” Richie sits up and look around. “Please tell me you’ve got at least one condom and a bottle of lube somewhere in this room.” 

Eddie lets out a peal of laughter. “I came here planning to spend an extra few days on vacation, of _course_ I came prepared.” Eddie sits up and points across the room to a duffle bag. “Side pocket.”

Richie is so quick in his haste to get off the bed that he goes tumbling off the bed entirely. Eddie scrambles to his knees and peers over the edge of the bed.

“You okay?”

Richie groans. “Yes. Maybe? I don’t know.”

Eddie buries his face in his hands and laughs. “Oh my god.” 

Richie finds himself grinning as he shakes his palms to dismiss the feeling of rug burn. He stumbles back to his feet and rushes over to the duffle bag, quickly pulling out a condom and the bottle of lube. He makes it back to the bed without tripping over himself and Eddie tugs him in for a kiss as soon as they’re on top of the covers again. They start to tilt backwards and Richie is ready to slot himself between Eddie’s thighs—

He’s surprised when he finds himself flat on his back and Eddie situating himself in his lap. “Oh,” Richie breathes. 

“Yeah,” Eddie says triumphantly. “I’ll take that.” He plucks the bottle of lube from Richie’s hand and quickly slicks up three fingers. He drops the bottle onto the bed and presses his hand against Richie’s chest for balance. 

Richie, still with the condom in one hand, presses his hands to Eddie’s thighs and watches as the other man reaches behind himself. “Fuck, fuck, fuck,” Richie pants. “This is literally, _literally_ right out of my wet dreams.”

Eddie snorts. “I’m _so_ shocked.” He gasps softly and even though Richie can’t see it, he knows Eddie is sliding one finger inside himself. Eddie tips his head back and says, “It is for me, too.” 

Things seem to pass quickly after that and before he even realizes it, Eddie is rising up and gripping Richie’s cock by the base. Richie didn’t even realize Eddie had taken the condom from him but it’s definitely on his cock, shiny and slicked up. 

“You with me, Richie?” 

“Yeah,” Richie replies hoarsely. His hands are sweat-slick and sliding across Eddie’s thighs, up to his hips, his waist, like Richie can’t get enough. He’s afraid to blink as if he might miss a single moment of Eddie panting in his lap and sinking down onto his cock. 

Richie groans as tight heat encases him. His eyes flutter shut to the side of Eddie’s head dipped forward, cock at half-chub and twitching between his legs. It feels like it takes eons for Eddie to sink down fully and when he does, they both just sit and catch their breath for a moment. 

Eddie shudders and clenches around Richie. 

“Fuck, Eds, you gotta give me a second.” 

“How do you think I feel?”

“If you don’t stop squirming this is going to be over _embarrassingly_ quick.”

“You should’ve let me get _you_ off first, too.” Eddie slowly starts to bounce, careful and measured movements that do nothing to stave off Richie’s orgasm. It’s too hot, too tight, and it’s fucking _Eddie_.

Richie throws his head back against the pillow with another groan. His nails are biting into Eddie’s thighs and the feeling of soft skin under his hands is all that’s keeping him grounded. 

Eddie leans over him so their chests brush; it changes the angle of Richie’s cock, he can’t get quite as deep, but the closeness is better anyway. Eddie’s lips on his jaw, his cheek, his mouth are better. Richie’s hands glide to cup Eddie’s ass and as he wraps his hands around the pert skin, it feels kind of undeniably like crossing something off a bucket-list.

The thick sound of skin slapping on wet skin joins the cacophony of their other noises and Richie forces his eyes open to watch Eddie jerking himself off quick. “Oh, fuck,” Richie hisses as he closes his eyes again.

Eddie laughs softly before kissing him again. “C’mon, Richie.”

Richie finally gives in to the urge to thrust up and meet Eddie’s thrusts part way; it rips a surprised moan from Eddie’s lips and Richie wants to hear nothing but that sound for the rest of his life. He thrusts up fast and hard, holding on to Eddie to keep him steady. He pounds the noises out of him and Richie finds himself breathless from the pleasure and exertion. 

“Please, Richie,” Eddie pants. “Please.” His voice is soft and desperate, a voice Richie only ever thought he would hear in his dreams. 

A clumsy kiss, Eddie’s free hand against his cheek, and Richie moans lowly, “I fucking love you, _shit_,” and comes. Eddie moans back, something wordless and jumbled; he arches his back and after a few slick slaps of skin on skin he comes a second time, spilling over his fingers and onto Richie’s stomach. 

Eddie presses his forehead to Richie’s. “I need to shower.”

Richie gives an exaggerated snore.

Eddie sits up and scoffs. “I’m inviting you to join me.”

Richie hums. He hums again and again, pretending to ponder the thought right up until Eddie twists his nipple a little too harshly, and abruptly clambers out of his lap. “Shit, Eddie!”

“You snooze you lose, Trashmouth,” Eddie calls over his shoulder as he wanders into the en suite. 

Richie can’t get off the bed fast enough—and trips again.

“If you get come on the carpet, I’m telling Ben and Beverly,” Eddie hollers from the bathroom just before the shower starts up. 

“Love you too, Eddie Spaghetti!” Richie says into the carpet. 

**(day four)**

Richie wakes up with an armful of Eddie. There’s sunlight streaming in from the window despite the curtains being mostly closed; it’s bright but it casts Eddie in a beautiful golden glow. Richie wishes he could reach his phone to take a picture but focuses on committing the image to memory instead. 

“Stop staring.” Eddie doesn’t even open an eye. “It’s creepy.”

Richie leans in and brushes a kiss over Eddie’s forehead. “Can I ask you something?” 

“Mm,” Eddie hums, snuggling in closer.

“What if I stayed with you, on your vacation?” Richie’s voice slips lower, quieter as nerves fizzle up his back like mentos in a coke bottle, delayed and then a sudden burst. “Just the two of us.”

Eddie doesn’t respond immediately. For a second, as Richie watches the light cast shadows around the hotel room, he thinks the other man has fallen back asleep; he can’t really blame Eddie. They were up late talking, hashing things out, kissing and touching and laughing and all the things Richie imagined but never thought he’d have. If it weren’t for the sun, Richie probably wouldn’t have woken up at all. 

Eventually he looks down. Eddie is staring up at him with wide eyes and a wider grin. 

“I’d like that,” Eddie says. “Just the two of us.” 

“Yeah?” Richie asks. 

“Yeah,” Eddie says before yawning. “But if you wake me up this early the rest of the days, I’m pushing you out of the plane when we fly out.”

“We probably won’t even be on the same plane.”

“Doesn’t matter. I’ll figure something out.” 

Richie snorts. “Yeah, I’m sure you would.” 

He watches as Eddie drifts off again, breathing even and gentle. His arm is going numb from where it’s tucked under Eddie but he couldn’t care less. He needs to call his agent and figure out shit—thank god he doesn’t have any upcoming tours or shows to worry about, but he can’t exactly drop off the face of the earth just because he’s finally _with_ Eddie. Richie swallows a quick bout of panic at the thought and forces his breathing to settle. 

“You’re thinking too hard,” Eddie slurs out. “Stop it.” 

“Sorry.” 

Eddie shakes his head. He sits up long enough to brush a kiss over Richie’s lips. “Stop freaking out. I can _feel_ you freaking out. Just the two of us, right?”

Richie nods. “Just the two of us.” Eddie settles back down and even though he still can’t sleep, Richie tries to get comfortable. In a whisper, he adds, “Love you, Eds.”

There’s a beat before—

“Don’t fucking call me that...And I love you too.” 

**Author's Note:**

> let's just ignore that my title is also the title of a Liam Neeson action flick, alright? ([also reblog this on tumblr, maybe?](https://punk-rock-yuppie.tumblr.com/post/187756510021/the-next-three-days-reddie-rated-e))


End file.
